Night at the Museum
by julianfletcher
Summary: Just another hunt for Sam and Dean Winchester...or so it seemed. They didn't expect the new monster. More chapters coming!
1. Chapter 1

"After being closed down for three years, the Museum of History in West Virginia opened up again under new management, only to be under close police inspection after a young man was found dead inside. Doctors claim after testing that it was a drug overdose, but his newly wed wife said otherwise. 'He never did drugs,' she insisted to the police the night of the death, going on to say that her husband was killed by something in one of the exhibits. 'It came to life and attacked him.' Her very words. She now resides in a mental hospital, recovering from the late trauma."

Sam looked up from his laptop screen as his older brother, Dean, walked in the door of their motel room. "Dean, you need to see this. I think I have a new case."

Dean plopped down on his bed, digging into a plastic grocery bag. "No, thank you." He grinned up at Sam. "I have lunch. And for dessert..."

"Pie," Sam finished, rolling his eyes.

"Bingo." Dean tossed a wrapped sandwich to Sam. "Eat."

Sam sat down next to Dean, flipping his screen around so his brother could see it. "A young man dies in a newly opened museum and wife claims that the exhibit came to life and killed him. What does that sound like, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, mouth full of food. "One crazy lady."

"I don't think so. I researched a little into the history of this museum and it turns out that there were more deaths like this one, years ago. All of the people who witnessed the killings claimed that an exhibit came to life and murdered the victim. Suspicious?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? Dean, this is a case, and we're going to investigate." Sam stood up, closing his laptop and placing it into its leather bag. He walked over to the table by the door and tossed the keys to the Impala to Dean. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry, your Highness, should I go get your tea now?"

Sam ignored him and walked out the door.

Five minutes later they were on the road, burning up the miles, headed to Pikesville, West Virginia. Twenty four hours later they had checked into a motel, dropped off their luggage, and drove to the museum. Sitting in the parking lot, they watched people come and go.

"We need to do something," Sam finally said. "Any of those people could be the next victim."

"I say we investigate the place tonight. Meanwhile, you should dig a little deeper on the victims, and see if you can find any connections. I'll talk to the late victim's wife."


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't understand. I talked to the police three days ago." The pale young woman lying on the hospital bed was tightly wrapped in white sheets. She looked as if she hadn't eaten a thing since her husband's death. Dean almost felt sorry for her.

"I'm with the FBI, like I said, and we have recently taken an interest in the case." He pulled out his forged badge to show her, doubting she even would have asked to see it. "Please tell me everything just like you told the police."

She shook her head, pausing to dreamily gaze out the window. "You'll think I'm crazy like everyone else."

"I'd never think that." _Right_. "So, please, tell me what happened."

"Alright." She continued to gaze outside as she spoke. "We were at the museum, laughing and having a wonderful time, when Mark- my husband- went on ahead to the next exhibit. He called out for me to find him. I walked into the room and there he was, lying on the floor, blood everywhere." She shivered slightly, tears filling her light blue eyes. "That's when I saw a man, a mannequin from the exhibit. He looked at me with these...these horrid, empty eyes. Then he flashed like a mirage and disappeared. When I turned around, he was part of the exhibit again, totally lifeless."

"And this was in broad daylight?"

"Yes, but no one else was there at the time."

"Do you remember which exhibit it was in?"

"Modern History...the Hatfield family I think."

Dean nodded. "Thank you. That's all." He would go to the hotel and wait for Sam. Hopefully his brother had better luck.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam unlocked the hotel door and walked in, hanging his jacket on a hook. Dean was sitting at a table, eyes closed, head resting in his arms. Sam set his bag on the couch, pulling out the laptop. "Dean, you asleep?"

"No, I'm trying to die."

Sam sat down across from him. "Well, wait till we're done with the case, okay."

"That's not funny."

Sam grinned. "Sorry." He opened his laptop. "So, what did you find out?"

Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes. "I think she's crazy. You?"

"Actually, I found an important one. All the victims are related."

"Shocker," Dean muttered. He stood up and walked to the fridge, murmuring something about starving to death before shutting it. "Sam, get me pie."

"First tell me what you found out. _Other _than the fact that you think the lady is crazy."

"Well, the killing was in broad daylight. The mannequin had these_...these horrid empty eyes_. And the exhibit was for the Hatfield family."

Sam's eyes widened and he jumped up. "The Hatfield family? That's it, Dean! It's so obvious."

"Enlighten me."

Sam was already heading for the door. "The victims were all from the _McCoy_ family."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam. "So you're saying these killings are over a family feud that started over eighty years ago?"

"That would make sense. Now that the all the original Hatfields are dead, an angry spirit is finishing the work. There's one more thing we have to check however."

"What's that?" Dean asked.

"The body."


	4. Chapter 4

Ten minutes later they stood at the front desk of the coroner's office, holding out badges.

"The police never told me that...uh…" The coroner squinted at the badges again, adjusting his glasses along his nose.

"Secret Service Medical Examiners," Dean offered.

The doctor eyed him. "Yes, yes. That _you_ would be coming."

"That's because we are part of the secret service and any phone calls would be dangerous for us and for you," Sam said, giving his voice a hard edge.

The doctor glanced between them. "Well, as much as I'd love to, I can't refuse the secret service." He turned and gestured for the boys to follow. They headed down a short hallway and entered a sterile, white room. The far wall was covered with small metal doors. The doctor unlocked one and pulled out a steel tray with a covered body on it. "You wanted to see Mark McCoy?"

"That's right," Sam said as the doctor pulled away the covering to the waist. The body was dressed in a simple gray outfit. "Tell me, Doctor, did the body have any physical wounds on it?"

The doctor nodded, unbuttoning the dead man's shirt. "Twenty-six knife wounds and a bullet hole to the chest."

Dean shook his head at the sight. "Mind telling us why you told the public he died from a drug overdose?"

"Because that's easier to explain, and we did find signs of drugs in his blood." The doctor lowered his voice. "Also, there were no gashes or holes in his shirt that _would_ be there if he was stabbed and shot. Which, or course, he was. It's impossible to understand."

Sam looked up at Dean and nodded. "Thank you, doctor."


	5. Chapter 5

The first half of the drive back to the hotel was quiet. Finally Dean spoke up. "So, what's significant about the twenty-six knife wounds and a bullet hole?"

"It's a sort of sick humor I guess. During the first big fight in the feud, three McCoys attacked and killed a Hatfield, stabbing him twenty-six times and finishing him off with a shot to the chest."

"And now the Hatfield ghost is returning the favor." Dean shook his head. "That _is_ sick." He glanced at Sam who was staring out the window, deep in thought. "So we figured that out. What's wrong?"

Sam rubbed his eyes. "It's just that all the Hatfields were cremated. If there are no remains to burn, how is this ghost still around?"

"I say we check the museum out tonight, find some answers."

Sam nodded. "We better. And in the meantime, we need to keep any more remaining McCoys out."


	6. Chapter 6

The museum was mostly empty that night except for a half dozen security guards. Two of them, after studying the exhibit map, volunteered to take the top floor where the Modern History section was. Sam and Dean, those "security guards," slunk around the dark hallways, each wielding a flashlight and a hidden shotgun, searching through a dozen or so dark exhibits until they came to one dedicated to the Hatfield family. In the middle of the room was a small model of the Hatfield farm, and the walls were lined with tables showing off guns and other assorted farming materials.

"Hey, Sammy, look." Dean pointed with his flashlight to the corner of the room where a roped off platform sat with a full size mannequin of "William Anderson 'Devil Anse' Hatfield"** (**according to a sign), leaning over the dead body of another mannequin. One arm was rested on the back of the victim, the other was raised in the air holding a "bloody" knife. A pistol was stuck in his belt. "That's comforting."

"Tell me about it," Sam murmured, drawing closer. "This looks like the exhibit Mrs. McCoy was talking about, huh?"

"It has to be." Dean also stepped towards it, holding his gun forward.

Something stirred behind them and both boys spun around, guns aimed. Nothing. Slowly they turned back towards the exhibit. The mannequin was gone.

"Crap," Dean hissed.

Sam cautiously spun in a circle, gun before him, tracing the shadows of the room. "Well, one thing is certain: this is not simply a spirit we are dealing with. It's the entire mannequin."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"Sam! Look out!" The mannequin loomed over the younger man, slashing down with his knife. Sam ducked back, but the blade still managed to bite into his shoulder. The cut was shallow but bloody. Dean swore and blasted two rounds of salt-filled shells through the mannequin's chest. They tore through the clothing and hard plastic, leaving a gaping hole. The mannequin leaned a little uneasily to look down at his empty insides. Dean reloaded and emptied another two shots into the thing's head just for good measure.

The mannequin shuddered then dissapeared. Sam spun around to look at the roped-off exhibit and there it was, still, leaning over the fake body of the McCoy. And it was completely healed.

"Looks good for a guy that just got slugged," Sam observed with a brief, crooked smile.

"Really, Sam?" Dean nodded at Sam's shoulder. "While we're on the topic though, how're you doing?"

Sam pressed his hand against the blood flow, drawing it back sticky and dripping. "I'll live...hopefully."

"Yeah, well stay alive until the hunt is over, okay." Dean smirked at his touché, ignoring Sam's glare.

The brothers spun towards the dim hall that led to the next exhibit as multiple pairs of sprinting footsteps neared.

"They heard the shotgun," Sam hissed, starting to back towards the opposite hall.

The words "_you think?" _were about to roll off Dean's tongue when four security guards burst into the exhibit. Their guns were raised to their shoulders, intensely sweeping the perimeter. One motioned with a gloved hand towards the hall across the room where two forms disappeared around a corner. "Let's go! Move!" And the guards were off again.

Sam and Dean sprinted through the halls, security hot on their heels. "Where's the exit?" Dean screeched to a stop, yanked out his flashlight, and flicked it on to read a sign posted on the wall. Sam jogged back and looked over his shoulder.

"This way." The hall split and Sam pointed to the left path. The boys ran again, passing through a World War 1 exhibit, and finally reached an emergency exit staircase. They busted through the door and pounded down the stairs, three at a time.

Same and Dean exited the staircase, breathing hard. There was a large hallway, some elevators, and the exit. They dashed to the exit, pushed open the door and set off a symphony of alarms. The Impala was parked close to the building and they reached it in seconds. Dean opened his door, jammed the keys in the ignition, and started up the motor. Once Sam was in they screeched away in a cloud of dust and skid marks. A close call.

Dean started to slow down once they were halfway to the motel, at last going his typical fifteen miles-per-hour over the speed limit. After long moments of silence, Dean punched the radio on and turned it up. When they finally pulled into the parking lot of the motel, "Hey Jude" was blasting from the speakers.

Sam silently left the car and headed to their room. When Dean came in, his brother was lying on his bed, laptop resting on his stomach. Sam looked up, closed the computer, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know, Dean. I really don't. What _is _this thing we're up against?"

Dean pointed to his brother's shoulder. "We need to patch you up. Then we can talk."

Twenty minutes later the boys were sitting across from each other at their room's dining table, Sam on his laptop, studiously searching for more information, Dean leaning back with his boots on the table, jacket pulled over his eyes, snoring peacefully. Sam finally pushed the laptop away. "Dean." No response. "Dean!"

Dean snorted and looked up. "I'm trying to get my beauty sleep in if you don't mind."

"I do mind, Dean," Sam growled. "There is a killer spirit-"

"Mannequin."

"Killer_ mannequin_ out there, murdering innocent people. And not just the McCoys either. He tried to kill us too, Dean."

Dean yawned and sat up. "I'm aware. Any more obvious things we need to point out?"

Sam's eyes pleaded with his brother. "I think we need help. Let's call Bobby, see what he can tell us." Dean nodded in agreement and tossed his phone to Sam. Sam dialed the old hunter's number from memory.

They waited as it rang once…twice…three times. "It's Bobby," came the gruff voice on the other end.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Sam."

"Sam! How are you and Dean?"

Sam glanced up at his brother who flashed a cheesy grin. "We're fine, Bobby. We just called to get some help on a case."

"Sam's idea," Dean whispered from his spot, receiving a glare.

"I'll see what I can do," Bobby offered. "Shoot."

Sam gave Bobby the low down, and grimaced at the dead silence on the other end when he finished. Silence, especially from Bobby, wasn't good.

"This is interesting." Bobby's voice finally sounded. "I've never heard of anything like that before."

Sam looked despairingly at Dean who shrugged and mouthed _your idea_. Sam mouthed back _shut up_ before returning his attention to the phone. "Well, thanks anyway, Bobby. Do some research and if you find anything, give us a call. Bye."

Dean caught the cell when Sam tossed it back. "What now?"

"I say we do our share of the research," Dean replied. "See what we can find out. And in the time being, think of something that might make the owners close down the museum for a while."

"Alright, well, you take care of that," Sam said quickly, standing up and grabbing his laptop. "I'll head to the library and see what else I can find out."

Dean didn't even have time to utter another word before his brother was out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam set another dusty volume on a growing pile, sighed, and buried his head in yet another. He was hunched over a tiny table in the corner of the library, looking through books that probably hadn't been touched in fifty years. They were mostly about old lore and legends. Most of the stories that filled the pages seemed sketchy at best, and even Sam was skeptical about the reliability of most of these old books.

The one he looked through now was describing different species of dragon, and Sam felt a headache coming on. What was all this crap? Sure, his dad talked in his diary about a dragon he once fought, but it wasn't a fantasy creature that looked like a giant lizard. The book soon went on the "looked through and found nothing" pile that was growing depressingly large. There was only one left and it was titled "How to Draw Wizards." How did that get there?

Sam stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stormed from the library. He should have known better. This was a public library. Why should it have accurate books about real monsters? It shouldn't, Sam knew that, but he was still frustrated. His phone rang. This better be good news.

"What."

"Is that how you treat me now, Sam?" It was Bobby.

"Oh, sorry, Bobby. Didn't know it was you. I just left the library and came up with nothing at all. Well, I take that back. I know how to draw wizards. Please tell me you found_ something_."

Bobby sighed. "I found something, and I think it might be what you and Dean are dealing with."

"Wonderful. What is it?"

"It's called a Kamenwati. That's Egyptian for dark rebel. I ran across the name in an old book I haven't looked at in years. In all honesty, I don't know where it came from. Anyway, this thing looks like a shadow in its natural form, which is perfect for sneaking up on its victims. It enters them somehow and takes complete control. It can't enter humans, though, which would explain your mannequin."

"It doesn't totally explain it, Bobby. Why the mannequin at_ this_ museum? Why a museum at all?"

"That's the interesting part. The Kamenwati feeds off animosity. Now, I don't know how it does this, but I'm guessing it kills a victim than eats the human's soul."

"Any idea on how to kill it?"

"That's the thing. The book said nothing about that."

"Ah. Well, thanks for all your help, Bobby."

Sam hung up and immediately dialed Dean's number. As the phone rang, he started jogging back to the apartment. The case just got a whole lot more serious. Not only were they facing a monster they had never faced before, but they had no idea on how to kill it.


	8. Chapter 8

"A new monster, huh?" Dean smirked. "I don't know whether to be thrilled or worried."

Sam paused his endless pacing for a second and glanced at Dean who was sitting on one of the motel beds, cleaning a couple guns. "Let's be worried, Dean. Really worried. This thing…Kamenwati…is killing people and we don't know how to stop it."

Dean shrugged. "You have a point there. Let's see, I'll run through a list of possible ways to kill it."

"And then, what? We try them all?"

"If that's what it takes, yes."

Sam started pacing again. "Okay, let's hear it."

"Silver bullets-"

"Dean, no. Bullets will never work. You saw what your shotgun did to the Kamenwati the other night. The thing healed as soon as it became part of the exhibit again."

"Fire."

"I don't know. That worked on the Wendigo, but this thing is different. The Kamenwati is more of a spirit."

Dean tossed the gun he'd been tinkering with on the bed, standing up. "Okay. Well, it's not _really _a spirit so there aren't bones to burn."

"Maybe we can trap it like a spirit, though, Dean. Then we can try different methods of killing it. It's worth a shot."

"Yeah? And how exactly are we getting back in that museum?"

Sam paused before the door and looked questioningly at Dean. "What do you mean?"

"Last time I was at the museum I posed as a health inspector."

"And?"

"I told the owner that he had Anthrax carrying bacteria everywhere, and suggested he close it for at least a month to get it all cleaned out. Well, he took my advice, and they now have security and pest control surrounding that building at every corner. At least people are safe from the Kamenwati for a time."

"That is if you don't count the pest control as people."

Dean slowly nodded before grabbing the guns from the bed. "Yeah, we should go." He and Sam hurried from the motel and speeded to the museum.


End file.
